The Quiet Ones
by Olive Drab
Summary: Hawkeye writes a New Year letter home. Oneshot


_A/N: This takes place just after the events of "Dear Sis."__ Happy New Year, all._

**The Quiet Ones**

Dear Dad,

Happy New Year from half a world away. It's precisely 1.28am on January 1st, so right now you and the rest of the US are a whole year behind me - I'm not even going to try and understand how all that works. There's a party going on in the mess tent, but I snuck away for a while. The fact that another year has passed and we're all still here doesn't seem like a reason to celebrate somehow. I reckon everyone who's sober enough to think about it is pretty depressed. On the bright side, I suppose most of us _are_ still here – too many others have been less fortunate.

Sorry, Dad, if that first paragraph isn't full of the hope and good cheer we usually associate with the New Year. Remember we used to make one resolution for each other? When I was thirteen you wrote _This year Hawkeye will stop biting his nails_ and stuck it on the refrigerator door, and I wrote _This year_ _Dad will eat less cream cakes_. The next morning you had crossed out 'less', replaced it with 'fewer', and underneath written _Hawkeye will also improve his grammar and his handwriting_. I'm looking at the note I've just pinned to the wall above my cot, Dad – it says_ This year Daniel Pierce will share a beer with his son at the kitchen table. _It's in my best handwriting, so nobody else will be able to read it.

Enough about the New Year. It's a day like any other, after all. Christmas was a bit different, and the party was more spontaneous, although of course we would have given anything to share it with everyone back home. We had snow on Christmas Day, which cheered everyone up. We also had casualties, which brought us down to earth again. By the time we got out of OR, Christmas was over and the ambulances had churned the snow into a muddy slush, but BJ found one tiny patch of white which had escaped somehow. There were two spots of blood in the snow – I guess they'd dripped off somebody's fingers. BJ said, "You know, the holly in my parents' yard has berries exactly that colour," and then he scuffed at the snow with his foot and walked away. I can't imagine how hard it must be for him to be away from his wife and daughter at this time of year.

Another person who's had a rough time recently is our padre, Father Mulcahy. Back at medical school, one of the most valuable things they taught us was that when you're faced with more than one casualty you should take notice of the people calling for help – then look again and notice those who aren't making any noise at all, because they are probably the ones who are hurting the most, or who are past pain altogether. Mulcahy's one of those quiet ones. We had a talk one evening after he'd had a particularly difficult day, and it was like a dam had burst and all the frustration and self-doubt just came pouring out. I hope I managed to help him a little. He's gentle and sincere and he has a heart of pure gold, and I think he may be the loneliest person here – an incredibly valuable member of the team who thinks all he's doing is watching from the sidelines most of the time.

I don't want you to get the impression that it's all doom and depression here, Dad. Maybe we should be feeling a little more optimistic. After all, if Father Mulcahy can carry on believing in peace on earth and goodwill to all men in this place, then I guess we should all try.

Got to go now, Dad. BJ's just come in to find me and return me to the party. Things must have livened up while I've been gone - he's carrying Nurse Able on his shoulders, and she's wearing Charles's tobogganing hat and not much else. There's another Father Mulcahy story behind that hat, but it will have to wait until another time.

Here's to a good year, Dad, and may we meet again long before it's over.

_Dona nobis pacem_.

Hawkeye

---------------------------------

A few weeks later, Radar came into the Swamp, closing the door behind him against the freezing temperature and icy wind. He pulled off one glove with his teeth and rummaged in his bag for a bundle of mail.

"Three for you Hawkeye, plus that volleyball magazine you like. How come you read this stuff, but I've never seen you playing volleyball?"

"I'll explain when you're older," said Hawkeye, holding out his hand for the letters.

Radar frowned, then turned to BJ. "Four for you. Oh, and this squashed box that says "Do not crush" on it. I think maybe it was a cake."

"Cake is cake, whether squashed, crushed or otherwise mutilated," said BJ, putting down his book and accepting the battered package with a smile. "Thanks, Radar."

Radar put two envelopes on the vacant cot. "Those are for Major Winchester when he comes off duty," he said sternly. "Don't go interfering with them, or it'll be me who gets it."

"Radar, how could you even think we would tamper with Charles's letters?" said BJ indignantly.

"Or his numbers," added Hawkeye.

BJ grinned. "We could make him Charles Emerson Winchester the Eighth."

"Would he get to have six wives?" asked Hawkeye. "I could go for that."

Radar turned to go, smiling uncertainly as the conversation left him way behind, but Hawkeye caught sight of the next letter in the pile the Corporal was still holding.

"Hey, you've missed one, Radar," he said. "I can smell a Crabapple Cove postmark from half a mile away. Hand it over." He reached for the envelope, but Radar snatched it away from his outstretched hand.

"This one's not for you, Hawkeye. It's addressed to Father Mulcahy." Radar held out the letter to show him but kept a tight hold on it, as if afraid that Hawkeye might grab it and run off like a mischievous puppy.

Hawkeye frowned, examining the handwriting on the envelope. "Father Mulcahy? Who does he know in……" A slow, delighted smile spread across his face as he read the return address. "Dad, I love you," he said softly. "Go deliver the mail, Radar."

---------------------------------

Later that evening, Hawkeye was sharing a drink with Margaret Houlihan in the Officers' Club when Father Mulcahy came in, wrapped up warmly against the night's chill.

"Join us, Father," called Margaret, waving him over.

"Thank you, Major." The priest bought three beers at the bar and carried them to the table, where he took off his overcoat, gloves and scarf before sitting down. He rubbed his hands together briskly. "It's really quite cold out there."

"Father, you are a master of understatement," said Hawkeye. "I saw a family of rats with a suitcases headed south this morning. It's on nights like this that you appreciate a nice warm beer."

Mulcahy looked down at his bottle. "I find that it's the warmth in a person's soul that matters. And mine is glowing tonight, having been touched by an act of kindness." He looked up, meeting Hawkeye's eyes, and smiled. "Thank you, Hawkeye."

"It's my Dad you should thank, Father," said Hawkeye. "But on his behalf, you're very welcome."

"Would someone like to tell me what's going on here?" asked Margaret as the two men raised their bottles to each other.

"Well, I've been feeling a bit sorry for myself, I guess," said the priest. "A little _surplice_ to requirements, if you like."

"A bad joke and an even worse opinion," said Hawkeye.

Mulcahy turned back to him. "Really?" he said mildly. "And how would you feel if you were the only doctor in an abbey full of nuns?"

Hawkeye looked startled, then thoughtful.

"Don't even begin to answer that, Pierce," said Margaret before he could open his mouth.

"What? I was only going to say I would feel extremely blessed. What did you think I was going to say?"

Margaret blushed to the roots of her blonde hair. "It – it doesn't matter."

Hawkeye grinned. "Oh, no – you can't accuse me of a thought crime and then go all coy when I call you as witness for the prosecution. Come on, what did you think I would say?"

"Well …… something about enjoying the night services."

Hawkeye howled with laughter. "Margaret, you have a faster and even more wonderfully perverted mind than I do. We were obviously made for each other. Marry me quickly, before someone worse comes along."

Margaret tried and failed to be offended by his teasing, and the three of them spent the evening talking about everything and nothing, laughing and enjoying one another's company. Eventually Margaret left the two men to finish their last beer together.

"Would you like to see the letter?" asked Mulcahy quietly.

Hawkeye was surprised by the question. "No, Father," he said. "That's really not necessary – I mean, I imagine it's personal."

But Mulcahy took a sheet of paper from his wallet and handed it across the table.

"It's a long letter," he said. "A slightly awkward introduction, a smattering of personal history and a few reminiscences on the life and times of one Hawkeye Pierce, some of which made me laugh and one of which made me sadder than I can say." Hawkeye looked away awkwardly. "But this is the final page," continued Mulcahy. "Written to a complete stranger thousands of miles away, and a true act of kindness."

Hawkeye looked down at the sheet of paper he was holding.

_I've been where you are, Father. I was in Europe during the last war, and I know __you are in a place where the Lord can seem very far away. I'm an old man and I've seen most of what the world can throw at me, and survived it. I know you will too, from what I've heard of you, but it doesn't have to be alone. I completely understand that you may not want to add to the burden of your friends or family or (God forbid!) your Bishop, but we all need to offload some of our doubts and fears every now and again, or we will end up no use to anyone, least of all ourselves. If I'm not being too forward, may I offer my hand and my mailbox to you in friendship? I leave it up to you, Father, but I would very much like to hear from you - if only to find out how young Pierce is misbehaving himself out there!_

_Yours in Christ_

_Father Joseph McCready (retired)_

_Crabapple Cove_

Hawkeye handed back the letter, smiling in fond remembrance. "Father Joe. He could be a friend without reminding you he was a priest the whole time. He had a knack for walking into a crowded room and homing in right away on anyone who was feeling upset or alone – the quiet ones who needed someone to talk to but didn't like to ask. You know the type of person I mean, Father?"

"I do," said Mulcahy softly. "I do."

The two priests exchanged many letters while the war continued, and when Mulcahy returned to the States they continued their friendship in person. He kept the final page of that first letter in his wallet for many years, long after the author's death, as a reminder that what might seem to be a small gesture to one person can be a lifeline to another.

**The End**


End file.
